


sudden arboreal stop

by 2manyboys, doublydaring



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Alternate Universe - The West Wing Fusion, Established Relationship, F/F, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-21 06:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30017469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2manyboys/pseuds/2manyboys, https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublydaring/pseuds/doublydaring
Summary: Their shoulders bump together as Nicky follows him back through the door and past the junior staffers, who all seem much busier now. They walk the familiar halls at a pace that never quite feels fast enough; there’s always too much to be done around here.“Did the Secret Service get Sappho out of that tree eventually?” Nicky asks.Booker casts a suspicious look over his shoulder, as if Copley might have followed them. “Yes, but not before somebody took satellite photos. That cat is damn embarrassing.”
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 24
Kudos: 92
Collections: The Old Guard Big Bang





	sudden arboreal stop

It’s the second briefing of the day and Booker has lost control of the press room. At the podium he’s covering the mic to shout without causing electronic feedback, saying, “Sit down, sit down or I’ll have you escorted out Copley!”

Things do not settle down much, but Copley does take his seat. The problem is he’s not the only too-smart, too-pushy, too-curious person in the room, he’s one of many. Nicky only keeps his face blank through years of practice, taking in the chaos, leaning back against a wall just inside the door back to the West Wing where he snuck in moments ago. There’s a group of junior staffers crammed in an office outside that door who all winced when he opened it, but they didn’t stop him. Nicky’s Deputy Chief of Staff and he has Oval Office privileges, he rarely gets stopped anywhere in this building. 

“No. No! I will _not_ address the rumors that the First Feline got loose on the east lawn this morning, nor will I discuss Senator Merrick’s insistence that the Library of Congress be defunded for refusing to purchase his family Bible. No one told him it was _worthless_ and if he can’t hear an intern’s honest assessment—which has since been backed up by rare book experts across the country—without crying to the press, that’s between him and his God.”

Booker barely pauses for breath, the laughter this gets him has more and more reporters retaking their seats. This isn’t anything new for the press secretary, he gets on a tear like this at least once a week. It is, Nicky notices idly, a new suit though. He’s just waiting for Booker to wrap up.

This room is like a small movie theatre, seats angled up and crammed with people, and Booker runs the show better than any of them. It’s usually Joe who fills in when they need someone and he’s far too friendly, doesn’t set enough boundaries. (There’s a reason it hasn’t happened again since the root canal incident.) Booker doesn’t have that problem. 

“I’m _definitely_ not giving you a quote regarding the President's intentions to run for re-election, it’s not a conversation she’s had with me and the deadline is a year away. If none of you have a single good question about the new policy initiatives, I’m ending this right now.” 

Silence settles at last, punctuated only by a single awkward cough. A few hands tentatively raise and, just as slowly, lower again. There’s always another briefing. 

Booker jogs his notecards into a neat pile, taps them once against the podium, and nods directly into camera. Some of his hair falls in his face, which Nicky knows instantly they’ll get to tease him for later. The morning news anchors think he’s adorable when that happens. “Alright, that’s all folks.” 

As he steps down towards Nicky and the door a chorus of his favorites, and least favorites, call out to him. (“Bye Booker.” “Thanks Book.” “Yell less next time bud.” “Thank you Booker.” “See ya.”) He ignores them. He barely even greets Nicky, just a single raised eyebrow acknowledging his presence. 

Their shoulders bump together as Nicky follows him back through the door and past the junior staffers, who all seem much busier now. They walk the familiar halls at a pace that never quite feels fast enough; there’s always too much to be done around here. 

“Did the Secret Service get Sappho out of that tree eventually?” Nicky asks.

Booker casts a suspicious look over his shoulder, as if Copley might have followed them. “Yes, but not before somebody took satellite photos. That cat is damn embarrassing.”

Nicky laughs, tagging along all the way to Booker’s office. It’s not until they get there that it seems to occur to Booker that he might want something. “Don’t tell me there’s something else I have to worry about today, Nicky. On top of all the rest I’m in the middle of convincing Quỳnh’s chief of staff that we should not, under any circumstances, organize a “fun lip-reading video of Immigrants (we get the job done) for social media”.”

“It’s a nice idea…” Nicky hesitates, thinking of all the people from their teams that might be included, it would honestly be a struggle to fit everyone on camera.

“It’s cheesy is what it is.” Booker argues, talking so fast Nicky has no opportunity to interrupt him, “It will only draw attention to the weak-as-shit policies we inherited before we can fix them, then Andy will put a price on the head of the senator from Texas, and—most importantly—I won’t get softball questions about stock price nonsense anymore because it’ll all be birth certificates and bullshit. No Hamilton! You add one more thing to my plate and I’ll throw a stapler at you.”

“I heard that!” Booker’s secretary quips before Nicky can insult his aim, “If you injure him I’m telling HR, the president, and his husband it was premeditated.”

Booker picks up his stapler and considers this. “In that order?” 

Glancing between the two of them, Booker leaning against his overcrowded desk like he’s modelling his new suit and Celeste with her matte black nails flying across the keyboard, writing emails at 110 wpm while talking to them, Nicky flashes back to the election campaign. The two of them used to really fight, slipping into French and ignoring all attempts at mediation. Andy’s win and moving into this building solidified their working relationship. Otherwise they might have killed each other.

“No.” Celeste snorts, “Joe first, obviously.” 

Nicky only smiles, in that blink-and-you’ll-miss-it way of his that leads many people to never know when he’s joking. “Nothing to worry about, Booker. I wanted to know who you picked for the office bracket.”

There is a beat of silence, filled with Booker’s suspicious stare. “You’re banned from betting Nicky, you’re miserable at it.” Booker reminds him, pointing with the stapler as if to emphasize his point. 

“Yes, of course.”

“Is this something under the table? Are you betting on the betting?”

“No, no, only curious.”

Booker sets the stapler back down, sighs, and glances back at Nicky with understanding. “...Joe’s betting for you both isn’t he.”

“Yes.” Nicky concedes. The steady rain-on-a-tin-roof tapping sound of Celeste’s keyboard pauses for a moment as she laughs hard enough to break her concentration, turning over her shoulder to smile at him. 

Booker mutters something deeply unprofessional under his breath that makes Nicky grin properly, proud. Celeste rolls her eyes and goes back to typing. 

“Yes.” Nicky says again, agreeing to the scandalous accusation Booker probably thought he didn’t hear, and then says, as he starts walking away, “So you had Miami? I’ll tell Joe.”

Booker waves him off, opening his email with what looks like a sick sense of dread. Someone else asks for his attention before Nicky’s even out of earshot.

* * *

Nicky stops by Joe’s office next, knocking softly on his open door with two knuckles. As always it looks like a tornado blew around the room moments before, stacks of paper and newspapers and books and half-finished coffee mugs from the cafeteria litter every available surface. The worn leather couch is practically invisible. Joe’s diplomas are all crooked on the far wall. Nicky doesn’t cross the threshold, which makes Joe look up from where he’s hunched behind three computer screens and laugh at him. “What, no kiss hello?”

“No time, I have to meet with Andy and Lykon. They’re going to send me up the Hill again.” Nicky says quickly, pulling a face, “Listen, Joe, Booker’s betting Miami.”

Joe is already out of his desk chair, tossing his glasses aside and crossing the small room towards him, though Nicky’s backing away into the tangle of cubicles, retreating with barely contained laughter of his own. Growling playfully, Joe grabs onto his tie.

They’re interrupted by Nile sticking her head out of her neighboring office and waving a draft of something, asking, “Joe, did you mean ‘effect’ here? On page four?” She doesn’t comment on the pose they’ve frozen in, like they’re waiting for a tabloid to snap a picture. She’s either too in the zone or too used to them to care. Maybe both.

Joe turns away from Nicky a moment, somehow able to recognize what Nile’s holding _and_ remember the sentence she means, “No, no, ‘affect’. It’s ‘affect’.”

Nile shrugs, “It’s really not.” 

Nicky tugs at his tie in Joe’s grip. They both ignore him. 

“It’s ‘affect’ because of the-“

“Joe.” Nile doesn’t challenge him further, only holds his gaze a moment. Joe nods once.

“Change it.” He says decisively. Then he turns, reels Nicky in by the tie, and plants a noisy kiss on his mouth. The look on Nicky’s face afterwards can only be called _besotted_. “Bring me back pizza?”

“You’re addicted to that garbage.”

“You’re a snob.”

“You’re both mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Yet somehow you have important jobs in this place.” Lykon cuts in from down the hall. Both Joe and Nicky’s heads whip around from Nile to him, their frozen pose a little closer to romance novel cover than tabloid now. 

He waves a casual hand towards Nicky in an unmistakable _come on then_ gesture. Joe smooths Nicky’s tie back down and they separate without another word, only loaded eye contact that somehow ends in Nicky knowing he’s going to get that terrible pizza for his husband. 

Lykon turns on his heel and heads for the Oval Office, Nicky catching up quickly on equally long legs. 

“Did you hear about Sappho?” He asks. As they make their way to Andy things get steadily quieter, a seriousness about this one area not stuffed with desks and computers and people in expensive shoes. It’s a kind of sanctity that Andy absolutely abhors. 

“Yes, poor thing. Worse than when she escaped into the room with the Queen’s corgis.” Lykon pauses thoughtfully, then adds, “Quỳnh threatened to have her shaved for that.” 

Nicky’s attempt to stifle his laugh has him headed past Andy’s secretary and into one of the most famous rooms in the country, still half-choking on his own spit. The President herself glances up and shoots him a distinctly unimpressed look. 

“Lykon, if you’re going to kill your deputy don’t do it in here, alright?” Andy says, standing from the imposing desk that’s older than all of them put together. Her suit is so impeccably tailored it looks like she could kill you with the sharp edge of a lapel. Nicky’s not sure why his mind is so focused on sartorial matters today, but it does feel a little like everyone dressed up for a group photo and forgot to tell him about it. 

“Yes ma’am.” Lykon agrees immediately.

“I _told_ you-“

“In this room I don't intend to stop, ma’am.” 

Andy sighs, “I really will have to promote Nicky at this rate. Alright, sit, how bad were the press?”

“Booker handled it.” Nicky is quick to assure her. Nothing more about that really needs to be said. They sit on the hideous chairs that are arranged, Nicky’s always thought, for photo-ops more than conversation. He has to turn fully sideways, back against the wooden armrest, to face her and say, “I’m more concerned about the votes for-“

“We have the votes.” Lykon interrupts. 

Andy leans forward and scowls, “We have them _now_ or we _will_ have them after Nicky goes and scares Deangelo and Smith shitless?”

For all Lykon insists on formality, he’s utterly unruffled by Andy’s language. Nicky doesn’t think anyone would survive as Andy’s Chief of Staff if they couldn’t take that in stride, and Lykon’s her oldest friend besides Quỳnh. He hands her a binder and says, “We have them now.”

Nicky clearly hasn’t seen the numbers Andy’s looking at either but he waits, looking down at the eagle on the carpet and wondering if he’ll have to dodge tourists on his way up the Mall after all. It’s not quite summer, so he won’t be swimming in humidity to get to the Capitol, but it’s hot enough that Joe teases him for keeping a whole separate wardrobe at work. He shouldn’t tease when he steals Nicky’s shirts all the time, he’s wearing one right now in fact, but Nicky likes it. The teasing, Joe’s attention, the full force of his poet’s tongue turned on him.

Glancing up to see both Lykon and Andy staring at him with something close to the look most commonly given to baby animals, Nicky schools his expression back to indifference. They don’t seem to buy it. 

“Have you two been home much?” Andy asks, flipping through pages, “Together, when you’re not so exhausted you have takeout and sleep like the dead?”

She hands him the binder as she asks this. Nicky’s grateful for the excuse to look down. He and Andy have been close for a lot longer than all this, long enough that he feels comfortable putting it back on her by asking, “Have you?”

“ _We_ have a personal chef.” Andy reminds him, grinning. She does look tired, but not worn down. There’s something bright in her gaze that he always looks for, something almost merciless. “Listen Nicky, I can give less speeches if-“

“Regretfully, ma’am.” Lykon cuts in, not looking regretful in the slightest, “No you can’t.” 

Nicky glances down at the numbers and up at Andy’s shark-like smile, Lykon’s calculating look, “Do you still need me to meet with-“

“Yes.” They say together. 

Nicky sighs and hands the binder back.

* * *

From: ndig@wh.gov “Nicolò di Genova”  
To: yalk@wh.gov “Yusuf al-Kaysani”  
Subject: Just wondering...

Earlier, was Lykon quoting something?

N

From: yalk@wh.gov “Yusuf al-Kaysani”  
To: ndig@wh.gov “Nicolò di Genova”  
Subject: Re: Just wondering…

Dearest Nicky,

I adore you. Never learn to use google. Yes, he was referencing something said about Lord Byron, the poet. Not very flattering but I suppose we deserve it for the PDA. 

_A thousand loves to you from me,_  
Yours always,  
Joe

From: ndig@wh.gov “Nicolò di Genova”  
To: yalk@wh.gov “Yusuf al-Kaysani”  
Subject: RE: Re: Just wondering...

Love you too. And now it’s in the official government record. Let’s talk ties tonight. 

N

From: slel@wh.gov “Sébastien Le Livre”  
To: yalk@wh.gov “Yusuf al-Kaysani”  
Subject: Betting pool and real work 

No time to call, tell me who you (and Nicky, cheaters) have for tonight. Also send back the numbers for the thing, you know, from the meeting last week. If you have language prepared about it send that too. Are you sitting in on the thing later with Hall and Keane? Let’s circle back on the agenda from yesterday. As much as I want to stay consistent with all the stakeholders, I’m starting to feel like a magic 8 ball saying the same three things. Let me know. 

Sébastien Le Livre  
White House Press Secretary  
Senior Staff to the President  
1600 Pennsylvania Ave NW  
Washington, DC 20500

From: yalk@wh.gov “Yusuf al-Kaysani”  
To: slel@wh.gov “Sébastien Le Livre”  
Subject: Re: Betting pool and real work

Dear Booker,

You should really let Celeste send all your messages, this was painful to interpret.

\- If you’ve got Miami we’ll take UNC  
\- Sent the numbers & talking points over with Preeti  
\- Lykon doesn’t let Keane and I within six feet anymore  
\- Ask again later, Cannot predict now, Don’t count on it

Best regards,  
Joe

From: slel@wh.gov “Sébastien Le Livre”  
To: yalk@wh.gov “Yusuf al-Kaysani”  
Subject: RE: Re: Betting pool and real work 

You’re a freak, you know that?

From: yalk@wh.gov “Yusuf al-Kaysani”  
To: nfre@wh.gov “Nile Freeman”  
Subject: Lunch?

Do you want pizza too? Just shout your order and I’ll hear you through the wall. 

From: nfre@wh.gov “Nile Freeman”  
To: yalk@wh.gov “Yusuf al-Kaysani”  
Subject: Re: Lunch?

I’m not doing that.

* * *

Nile steps into the tiny, dim bar that a lot of the staff frequent to find it largely empty tonight. Either it’s too early and everyone is still in the office when they shouldn’t be, or it’s late enough that most of them have wandered down the street to a bar big enough to have a pool table. She spots Booker easily; there’s not much light but sometimes it’s striking how blonde he is. He’s chatting with the bartender, making them laugh. Nile snags the seat next to him and waits for him to notice. 

It doesn’t take long. Probably because she steals his drink. 

“Hey.” He says, tone straddling the line between greeting and protest, like he wasn’t even sure which he meant to convey. Nile smiles. 

“You’ve got a problem.” She tells him, taking the last sip and setting the glass down on the paper coaster in front of him. 

“I know. I’m thirsty.” He says, trying to signal the bartender to come back.

“Okay,” She says, laughing, “Two problems.” 

“What’s the other one?” He grumbles, but she sees right through him. He orders new drinks for both of them after all. 

Nile doesn’t answer, just points up at a TV screen. Miami’s getting absolutely trashed. They toast to it anyway.

He walks her home later, though it’s out of his way and absolutely unnecessary. She doesn’t mind, every college story he tells her about Joe on the way is ammunition for the next time they butt heads over something. She’s been saving them up for the fight they’ll definitely have over how to end the State of Union. 

Just as she slides her key into the lock of the bright yellow row house she lives in with four other people, Nile turns and glances back at him on the sidewalk. “Hey Booker?”

“Yeah?” He asks, hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“Why did you take this job? You hate dealing with the press, cleaning up our messes.”

Booker sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. He answers like he’s practiced it in the mirror, “Andy asked and I couldn't say no. I serve at the pleasure of the President.” 

Nile’s not satisfied with that. “We all do. But seriously.”

He takes a moment to think about it, but only a moment. Responding to unexpected questions with grace, or at least confidence, is part of his job after all. He is good at it. “Nobody else would do it right.” Booker says, and though his smile suggests he’s expecting her to mock him for that, she thinks he means it. They’re all a little egotistical, Andy practically cultivates it in them. 

“ _That_ I understand.” Nile nods, and turns the key. “See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Booker agrees. She doesn’t check, but she’s pretty sure he waits until she locks the door behind her to head home himself.

* * *

Andy shuts the door to the private residence behind her with unnecessary force and a long, dramatic, sigh. She kicks her shoes off, throws her jacket over the back of the nearest chair, and follows the sounds of music and tv and sports all playing at once.

Quỳnh is lounging on the couch, looking half-asleep with her phone stuck in a book open on her chest. It should be impossible to look that relaxed with all the competing noise, but Quỳnh has never liked silence. Andy leans over the back of the couch to brush hair out of her wife’s face, feeling instantly more centered than she has all day. The way Quỳnh looks at her makes her think the feeling is mutual.

“Hey babe. Been working hard?” Quỳnh asks, voice a little rough. She’s still getting over a cold, shook too many hands at the climate conference, and Andy tries not to let it show how it affects her. Sometimes everything Quỳnh does is sexy.

“Nah, hardly working. How’s the ocean levels?” 

“Rising. The country?” 

“A series of emergencies.” 

“Hmm… chocolate cake? Red wine? Bubble bath?” 

“I’m in love with you.” Andy says, straightforward, leaning over the back of the couch to kiss her deeply, “Run away with me.” 

“Hmm, no.” Quỳnh laughs, leaning up to chase another kiss in apology, “We did that before, I think we’d better stay this time. Our terrible child has become accustomed to this lifestyle, I’m not sure we could meet her demands anywhere else.” 

They turn to look at Sappho together. She’s curled up at the top of her enormous cat tower, it’s castle-shaped and she’s up at the very top, tail hanging down over the parapet and flicking in an irregular rhythm. Her paws are over her face like they’re disturbing her rest by leaving the lights on. She was a disgustingly cute kitten, picture perfect ragdoll, and she’s become the most spoiled full grown cat to ever exist. It’s like she knows she’s famous. 

“Do you think if we snuck off now, that she wouldn’t cry and scratch at the door?”

“Worth a shot.” Quỳnh smiles, “Even if she does, we didn’t exactly put down a deposit.”

* * *

“Hey, remember when you came and got me?” Joe asks as soon as he walks in the door to their apartment. He does this a lot, starts conversations long before he’s in the room with the person he’s talking to, Nicky usually finds it charming, assuming he’s eaten recently. 

Nicky looks up from the couch, watching Joe trip through taking off his coat and shoes at the same time, “What, no kiss hello?”

Joe grins at him, tugging his tie off, remembering that Nicky’s quoting him. “Do you remember?”

“When I got you? Got you... lunch?” Nicky asks. He doesn’t call it pizza.

“No, no, for the campaign. When you came and got me.” 

“Yes Joe, I remember. You hadn’t been sleeping.”

That’s an understatement. Joe had been working himself to the bone at that job and he didn’t believe in the work. Worse, it was the longest they’d been apart since they met. When the day finally came that Nicky got to go and recruit him, got to tell him that Andy’s team was going to do things right, for the right reasons… 

“I wasn’t sure you were real, that day.” Joe says, “But I asked you if you were taking me home, and the way you smiled… pretty bad poker face Nicky.”

“Joe, we were engaged.” 

“I know, and now we’re married! Good thing, because the way you look at me still…” Joe stops talking because he hops over the back of the couch and tackles Nicky into the cushions. He’s not even angling to make out, just makes himself comfortable as a human blanket, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Long day, my love?” Nicky asks, struggling not to laugh.

“There’s never less work, there’s never more time.”

“I know.” Nicky soothes, stroking his back, “Andy said she’s worried about us, asked if we’d had time to ourselves.”

“She asked you if we had time in our busy schedules for sex? In the Oval, she asked that?”

“Not exactly.”

“Sounds like her though.”

“It does.”

“Was she bragging again?”

“Almost definitely.”

“Hmm, well, I'd rather fall asleep on you, I think.”

“Eat something first and I’ll read to you in bed. No more sleeping on couches, by Presidential order.” 

“You drive a hard bargain. No wonder Andy sends you to crack the whip.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Joe doesn’t move. 

“You’re just thinking about your own pun, aren’t you? I won't encourage this.”

“I’m imagining you breaking that man over your thigh like a glow stick. It wouldn’t work though, he’s _spineless_.” Nicky can practically hear the _ba-dum-tsh_ punchline drum sound. 

“Go have dinner before you start texting these to Nile.”

“Okay.” Joe agrees, rolling off of him onto the floor dramatically. Nicky leans over the edge of the couch to peer down at him, knowing he’s got that exact look on his face Joe was teasing him for, besotted again. Everyone who spends more than five minutes with him looks at Joe like this, he just doesn’t notice. 

“I love you.” Nicky has to tell him. 

“I love you.” Joe says, quieter, eyes wide and full of emotion. Or maybe he’s going to cry because he hit the floor too hard. It’s impossible to say. 

“Did you see Lykon leave?”

“Yes actually. We left together, and you know what he told me?”

“To… get home safe?”

“No. Well, yes, he’s a sweetheart, but no. He told me that he found out all our secret service codenames. Do you want to know yours?”

“Of course I do.”

“Little spoon.”

Nicky rarely does this anymore, but he physically can’t help it, his face goes red as a fire hydrant. “Joe, you _swore_ nobody caught us-“

“They didn’t!”

“Clearly somebody said something. We can’t keep napping on Air Force One.”

“Yes we can, you hate flying.”

“Not more than I hate the thought that every time we leave the room someone calls me _little spoon_.”

“Well,” Joe laughs, “Mine’s _jet-pack_ , which I did text Nile about and she said it’s a short joke.”

Nicky snorts and rolls back onto his back on the couch. After a moment staring up at the ceiling, enjoying Joe’s laughter immensely, he tries another negotiation tactic. “Go eat something and we can talk about ties.” 

The interested noise Joe makes has the hair on Nicky’s arms standing up. “Oh yeah. You liked that, huh?” 

“I’ll tell you, if-”

“Alright, my heart.” Joe slowly gets to his feet, stretching up enough that his shirt pulls free of his pants and he teases Nicky with a flash of his hip bone. He leans over for a kiss, a fleeting thing but so well-practiced it’s perfect, sugar-coated. As he makes his way for the kitchen Nicky heads for their bedroom. Even muffled by the wall between them he hears Joe call, “Hey, did you check the scores?” 

They soon forget all about the bet. 

Booker’s good about footing the bill for the irresponsible amount of takeout they order the next day, when a strategy session stretches two hours over schedule and—except for the way Andy and Joe surreptitiously high five at the start of that meeting, somehow able to tell they both had good nights—Nicky thinks maybe they are getting the hang of all this responsibility. He changes his mind by the second briefing.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you first of all to my artist partner in this, I love the group pic so much and I was really glad I could step in to pinch hit! ❤️
> 
> Inside of me are two... jackals. One is howling “I want a dyke for president” (& the rest of Zoe Leonard's poem) and the other says “no good presidents, Andy is a war criminal”. This was fun to write in the same way watching the show is fun for me, thanks for the hypnotic propaganda of your very fast dialog Mr. Sorkin.


End file.
